


There's no salvation for me now

by Sansastarklives



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, The Hunger Games crossover, Violence, game of thrones crossover, it is in the hunger games, maybe trigger warnings?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 00:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sansastarklives/pseuds/Sansastarklives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thrashed out, clawing at the thick white material of the Peacekeepers uniform. "I volunteer." Sansa searched around for the source of the words, until it slowly dawned on her that she was the one screaming them.</p><p>Sansa Stark is entering the Hunger Games, but will she emerge alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's no salvation for me now

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for gameofshipschallenges the crossover day, but I didn't finish it in time, hope you like it :)

      Sansa lay wide awake, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. She willed sleep to come to her, but she was left to think, to worry. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her hands into fists. Her icy blue eyes snapped shut. _There are so many girls._ She reassured herself. _It could be anyone. Everyone's name is only in there once._ Years ago they would have put there names in a couple of times, as the extra food came in useful. It wasn't safe enough for them to do that this year, not after... No, she wouldn't think about it. Instead she turned on her side and gazed at the black velvet sky outside her window. There was so much out there. She longed to her there, to be free. But she was stuck in her small room, in her terrible world. She began to create stories of the stars, of lost people, of tragic lovers, just like she did when she was little. That was enough to guide her into a light sleep.

      When Sansa woke, she could feel someone's eyes on her. She pushed her flaming locks from her face and glanced around the room. Arya was perched on the edge of her bed, watching her with wide eyes. She was trembling. Arya was never scared, never sad, never gave anything away. Yet the girl on her bed was crying. When she saw that Sansa was awake, Arya gingerly moved closer to her, until she was at arm's length. "What if my name is called out?" She whimpered. Sansa felt her heart sink a little at Arya's words. This was Arya's first time in the reaping, her name was once in the bowl once, but... "No." Sansa whispered forcefully. "It won't be." Her voice was stronger than she thought it would be, than it should be considering it was taking all of her strength to not fall apart at this very moment.

      Sansa snaked an arm around Arya's waist, bringing her into a tight arm. Arya shied away at first: she and her sister had never been particularly close. A small tear slid down Sansa's cheek as Arya's head leant against her shoulder. They had already taken so much, they couldn't have Arya too. "I promise you, you won't be chosen." Arya moved away after a moment, her face a perfect mask. She gave Sansa a small nod before quickly leaving her room.

     A powder blue dress was hanging from the door, along with a pair of simple blue pumps. Once Sansa had slipped them one, she pulled her hair into a tight braid, nodding at her reflection in the mirror. She fashioned her expression into a calm mask, but inside she was screaming. "It's time," she heard a deep voice call from downstairs. With a heavy sigh Sansa left her room, hoping she would soon be back with her whole family, well as whole as possible.

      There was already a great crowd gathered below the great stage. Sansa stood in the midst of the girls, her gaze flickering to Arya every now and then, giving her a reassuring smile. The great doors swung open. Sansa tore her eyes from them, instead turning her attention to the ground. She couldn't bare to see Effie's smile: it was bad enough that she had to hear she cheery voice. After the usual speech, Effie began the moment which stopped everyone's hearts. "May the odds be ever in your favour," she sang as her hand sank into the glass bowl. The paper crinkled as she spread it out in her slim fingers. Sansa watched Effie, biting into the side of her cheek. "ARYA STARK."

      Sansa's icy blue eyes snapped up to Effie's face. No, she must have imagined it. Her head pounded against her chest so forcefully that Sansa could hear every beat in her ears. Her stomach turned to liquid, a heavy weight inside of her. The back of her throat turned dry. Everything went quiet, all Sansa could hear was her own heavy breaths. Everything seemed to b happening so slowly. Arya was walking towards the stage, her face set like marble, yet Sansa could see the fear in her younger sister's eyes. Arya was getting closer to her, but she had barely moved. That's when Sansa realised she was running. She was running into the space before Arya. Two arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her into the air. She thrashed out, clawing all the thick white material of the Peacekeepers uniform. "I volunteer." Sansa searched around for the source of the words, until it slowly dawned on her that she was the one screaming them. The peacekeeper set her down, giving a gentle push against her back. She could hear Arya's screams of protest beside her, but it was too late, she was on the stage, disappearing into the grand oak doors. Sansa only had one thought in her head as she found her way into the darkness. _I'm going to die._

 

      _Win._ Arya's last words to her repeated over and over in Sansa's mind. _You can win. You_ have _to._ Sansa looked around the great carriage, her hands in her lap. In the corner of her eye, she spotted something moving beside her. The boy was a year or two older than she was. He had curled fair hair and wide blue eyes. He had an aire of confidence around him with a smile set on his lips. He laughed when he saw her watching him. "Harry," he beamed, holding out his hand to her. "Sansa," she replied quietly. His hand lingered a heartbeat too long on hers.

      "How touching," a cool voice whispered from the corner of the room. Sansa turned sharply in her seat. A man, barely taller than Sansa, stood in the doorway. He had short dark hair, littered with grey and grey-green eyes, which didn't smile when his mouth did. His eyes settled on the space where Sansa and Harry's hands had been. "Petyr Baelish: your mentor." He smirked as he slowly made his way across the room to the chair opposite them. "So this is what I have to work with," Petyr whispered to himself. Sansa felt uncomfortable under his gaze: he seemed to see everything while not looking at all. "Your training will begin tomorrow. Take tonight to get to know yourselves... Or don't: you'll all be killing each other soon anyway." And with that he rose and left the cabin.

      Sansa's face turned a burning red: what that all? Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, walking after him. She walked into the narrow corridor, her fingers reaching out to his back, but stopping at the last moment and dropping to her side. What should she call him? Petyr? Mr Baelish? Mentor Baelish? "Sir?" She mumbled. Petyr stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to face her, a devious grin lacing his lips. He raised a brow in silent question. "I- er..." Sansa stuttered, allowing the silence to fall between them. Why was she doing this? Her stomach twisted as she thought of Arya. Arya would fight. "Well, was that it?" Her voice was practically trembling, not the strength she had intended. A mocking laugh left his lips as his eyes swept over her.

       "What do you mean?" Petyr moved forwards a little, slowly closing the distance between them. Sansa stood perfectly still. She wanted to hit him, she wanted to yell: to scream.

      "I could _die_ and all you can tell me is that I'll get some training tomorrow?!" Her voice was suddenly loud, with a fury she had never felt before now. Petyr watched her with a blank expression. "Your supposed to be my mentor! You are meant to _help_ me. Help us." She exhaled loudly. This wasn't fair. She didn't want to be there at all. She didn't deserve to be there. This was all because of what happened years ago. It wasn't her fault.

      She felt something on her shoulder and when she looked up, she saw Petyr's face inches away from hers. His hand gripped her shoulder tightly, his other lifting to her face, wiping away the hot tears that were falling from her icy eyes. _He'll think I'm weak now._ She thought, closing her hands into fists. _I'm just a stupid girl. Stupid. I'll be dead within the fortnight._

      "You remind me of another girl," he smiled, his hand moving from her cheek to tuck away a loose strand of fiery hair. "She had been kissed by fire too. She was strong: stronger than people gave her credit for." He raised his eyebrows slightly, a smile growing on his thin lips. "You look a lot like her." Sansa swallowed, forcing her tears to stop: she needed to be strong.

      "Who was she?" The words tumbled from her mouth, curiosity taking the better of her. Sansa stared into Petyr's grey green eyes, feeling uneasy when his grin grew.

      "Your mother." Sansa's mouth dropped open. No, he must be making it up. "We were childhood friends." He suddenly straightened his back, stepping away from Sansa a little. "For her sake, I'll help you." He spun around and strolled down the hall, disappearing into the darkness. Sansa stood there for a moment, watching the space where he had been. She knew that she had no chance in surviving this game, yet if he helped her, then she could at least fight. Starks were not ones for going down without a fight, her father had taught her that. The memories of her father were so fresh that they held Sansa where she stood. They had been starving. They had been poor. They had not been living, they had been surviving. Sansa couldn't remember the last time she saw anyone actually _live_. No, they worked, they ate, they slept and that was all.

Her father had gained the support of many and they had all fought. Fought for freedom. Fought for their rights. President Joffrey had ensured that they all lost: that they paid for their mistake. Her father had been imprisoned for weeks, before emerging an entirely new man: an ill man. Barely any pressure had to be put on the axe for it to slice through her father's neck. Sansa shuddered at the memory, turning to her bed. Maybe she would be seeing her father again soon.

 

      The next morning Sansa woke up to heavy bangs echoed through her room. She shot up quickly to see Petyr standing at her door, his knuckles resting against the dark wood. A grin spread across his thin lips as he stared mischievously at Sansa. Her blankets had fallen around her and Sansa was painfully aware of how thin her night dress was. She dragged the white covers up to her chin, glaring at Petyr all the while. "I told you, training starts bright and early." He half turned, before stopping and looking back at her. "Unless you've changed your mind and decided to give up?" He widened his eyes, almost daring her to answer. He smirked as he left the room, leaving Sansa speechless. _This really is just a game to you._

       She hastily got washed and dressed before walking out into the dining carriage. Petyr was draped across the chair, an orange in one hand, knife in the other. Sansa sat opposite him, noticing the way he seemed to watch her every moment. "What do you want to learn?" He asked. Sansa sat back for a moment. What did she want to learn? She bit her lip nervously, she really should have thought this through.

      "I want to learn how to play the game. I want to be able to fight." Petyr smirked at her words, moving to rest his hands against the table, leaning in slightly.

       "Well those are two different things, sweetling." He smiled once again, well his mouth did, his eyes stayed set and cold. Sansa raised a brow in silent question. "You want to play the game: you want to win. To win, you need to play to your strengths and well..." He gestured at her with a lazy hand. "You aren't exactly the fighting type. You need to use this." He lifted a lazy finger to his temple and tapped against it. When Sansa's brows merged in confusion, he sighed loudly. "You want to play this game? Then use your intelligence. You will learn how to fight with weapons when we reach the capitol, but so will all of those other tributes. And those tributes will have been training for years. If you have a plan, a _good_ plan, then you have the edge." Sansa nodded at his words.

       "So what's my plan?" She asked, moving closer towards him. His eyes swept over her, taking her in from head to toe. She squirmed a little under his gaze, there was a look in his eyes which she couldn't read and that bothered her.

      "You should win over the people who watch the games: you need sponsors. However your beauty will help with that, so no need to worry there. Pick a good partner: if you have someone to help you when your in the game then you may yet survive. Harry could be good: he seems strong. Maybe have another one or two tributes on your side, you could easily pick people off as a group." Sansa watched him with wide eyes. She took in the way his eyes flickered side to side as he was deep in thought. The way his lips twitched slightly. The way his hands moved with every word. "Then at the end, when it comes to killing them..." He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes in deep concentration. They snapped open quickly, focusing on Sansa with a sly look. "You offer to prepare the meals: all of them. Then one night slip in a handful of poison berries, they'll all be killed and no blood need be shed." He relaxed back into his chair, clearly proud of his own plan. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed Sansa staring wide eyed at the floor.

       Petyr leant forwards, taking one of her hands in his. "You said that you wanted to learn the game. That's the game, Sansa. You need to be clever. You need to be sly. You need to be cold. You need to be hard. You need to be ruthless. You need to be brave. You need to survive. You need to kill. You _need_ to do this. Can you?" Sansa inhaled deeply, tears beginning to fill her eyes. She had been so sure of herself mere hours ago and now? Now she felt as though she were ready to die at any moment.

      "I don't know," she whispered. Tears finally began to roll down her cheeks, leaving a glistening trail behind them. "I- I just don't know if I can kill somebody..." She looked at him with fearful eyes. "I don't want to die, but I don't to be the reason that someone else does. I mean, how could I live with myself? I'm not a- a..." She stuttered, suddenly losing her voice. Petyr's eyes narrowed and his lips turned into a thin line.

      "A monster? Is that what I am to you, sweetling?" He ignored Sansa's attempts at interrupting him, at apologising. "We are all monsters here. We are born into a world where we watch children being pitied against each other and forced to kill, as though they were animals. We all watch. We do nothing. That is how we live. We are all monsters and the only way to win the game is to admit to what you are. Its the only way to live: don't _you_ want to live, Sansa?"

       "Does it get easier?" Petyr looked away at her last question. The memory of a young girl sprung to mind. He tried to push it away, but he couldn't. All he could see was the blur, falling, forever falling.

      "If it means I'm here, I'm alive, I survived? Then yes that it easier to handle. " He didn't bother to fake a smile, knowing it was no use. Sansa slowly nodded her head, thoughts of Arya spurring her on: she could do this. She wasn't a monster, but she had to live. Petyr dropped her hand, abruptly standing and leaving the room, stopping only for a second in the doorway. "We'll be arriving soon. Your lessons will begin as soon as we arrive."

 

       Sansa watched the towering buildings stretching out for the sapphire sky. The blinding sun reflected from the mirror surfaced walls. Crowd upon crowd gathered around the train, watching. Whispers echoed through the station, people calling out names of certain tributes, waving frantically. Did they not see how sick this was? Sansa stared at the grey ground beneath her instead of looking around the Capitol, it was sickening to see how excited many of the people were: especially some of the other tributes. Petyr walked beside her, his arm occasionally brushing against hers as they walked. Even though it was accidental, it was reassuring to Sansa. Someone was there who would help her, guide her, teach her. Maybe he even believed in her, but she wasn't too sure about that just yet. Once they were inside the great hall, they were separated according to districts. Sansa and Harry stood alone in a room with Petyr.

       "I want to practice with the swords," Harry replied when Petyr asked which weapons they wanted to use. Petyr nodded and directed Harry straight to a huge man with mud coloured hair. Harry smiled triumphantly as he shook hands with the trainer. He strolled through the centre, head held high. Sansa could only imagine having that much confidence.

      "And what about you, dear Sansa? What weapon would you like to learn to use?" He laughed when Sansa shook her head uncertainly. "Well why don't _we_ go to that the weapons room and find one which suits you best?" Petyr gestured towards the great metal doors, his gaze burning into Sansa's back as she walked ahead.

      Each weapons had been placed in separate cabinets around the room. A group of boys had gathered around the wooden dummies, scratching along the surface with their swords. Sansa gingerly picked one up. She knew that she had not been built for fighting, but a small part of her hoped that she would instantly be able to use as many weapons as possible: no one would want her on their side if she wasn't handy with a weapon.

      Swords were definitely not Sansa's forte. They were so heavy, and caused Sansa to stumble every time she lifted it to waist height. Petyr laughed at her the first time, the mocking sound echoing through the room, bouncing from the great walls. He quickly swooped in behind her, wrapping his hands over hers, showing her how to move the weapon in small, certain movements but it was no use. She let the blade slip from her fingers, watching it clatter to the ground. She moved from the swords area and made her way to the next square, her head hanging.

      Petyr handed her a small axe next, wrapping his hand over hers, his front pressed tightly against her back as he showed her how to swing it. She watched as it swished through the air. A whistle sounded, as the silver gained speed. Together they planted the blade of it into a wooden doll and after a few tries, Sansa could do it alone. Soon enough, she was swinging it at targets, firmly lodging it into the board each time. Petyr nodded his approval, but Sansa only sighed.

      "They aren't people though. They aren't _these_ people." She gestured towards t other tributes scattered throughout the training room. They were talking, they were moving, they were laughing: they were living people. Sansa couldn't picture any of the boards being those people: those living and breathing people. Her mentor's jaw clenched at her words and Sansa convinced herself that he did not mutter the words _stubborn girl_ under his breath. 

      Sansa turned around, spotting the bow and arrow. Suddenly Petyr was beside the silver cabinet, lifting the bow she had been staring at and carrying over to her. He handed her the bow, entwining his hand with hers, moulding it onto the bow, squeezing tightly. He positioned himself behind her, his chest leaning against her back. His chin resting on her shoulder. She could feel his warmth through their clothes, his breath on her ear, yet she made no motion as if to move away. His cool hand guided hers around the string, pulling it back to eye level. He whispered the instructions quietly, as though they were secrets only they could know. Sansa followed every word. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the circles swimming in the air before her. She drew back the arrow, allowing the red feather to gently brush against her cheekbone, before releasing it, smiling triumphantly when the arrow swam through the air, forcing its way into the red circle in the centre of the wooden target board. "Good. Very good indeed, sweetling," Petyr breathed in her ear. Sansa blushed at his praise, immediately becoming aware of how close he actually was. She moved away from him, standing alone in front of the boards, firing arrow after arrow. All the while Petyr stood patiently in the corner, watching.

      Sansa strolled over to the rack containing daggers. Her hand hovered above them, the tips of her fingers occasionally brushing against the different handles. Some were simple silver ones, while others had handles made of black leather, some with golden edges, a few with red patterns along the handle. She picked up a small silver one, spinning it around in her hands, balancing it at different angles. She tilted it on one edge, flipping it through the air before catching the black handle. Petyr stood before her, watching her with a blank expression. When Sansa looked up at him, smiling, he moved forwards. He brushed away a stray strand of hair, his face coming barely inches from hers. "Your mother used daggers." He exhaled loudly, his finger trailing along her cheekbone. "You remind me of her so much." His voice almost dreamy.

      During her days at the capitol, Sansa had heard rumours of Petyr's relationship with her mother. Petyr had described them as being childhood friends, but it was evident that he had longed for something more. Petyr had been an exceptionally smart child, but had unfortunately been born into a poor family. The Tully's had invested in him, put him through school, treated him like one of the there own. He and Cateyln had grown up together. He had fallen in love with her, he even proposed to her. However her mother had only seen Petyr as another brother and had chosen to marry Ned Stark instead. That was why Sansa could finally read that look in those hard eyes. It was a fire, it was longing, it was desire, it was a _need_. And Sansa knew that Petyr gave into his needs after his many talks about the game with her.

       Sansa knew that she should push him away. She should tell him to leave now, but this was the only man who had really shown any confidence in her. He was the one person teaching her how to play this awful game. He was the one who she sat beside in the evenings and nights, watching television with, reading with, talking with, trying to be normal with. Everyone else seemed to avoid her as though she were already dead, already in the seven hells.

      Sansa tilted her hand slightly, digging the tip of her dagger into Petyr's stomach. His smirk mirrored hers when he saw the gleam of silver between them. He backed away, rising his hands in mock defence. "I surrender," he laughed, backing away still. Sansa turned quickly, picking up an axe and walking away to practice.

     

      Later that night, they had all sat together around the table to eat their dinner, as though everything were normal. Harry had gone on and on about how well he had practiced with the swords. Sansa had been resisting the urge to roll her eyes all evening: she needed Harry to like her so that he would have her on his side, but seven hells he was boring. Petyr was smiling silently beside her as though he knew what she were thinking. His hand moved beneath the table, resting on her knee and giving it a small squeeze.

      "I almost forgot to tell you," Petyr interrupted Harry's story, clearly as bored as Sansa was. "Tomorrow you shall be scored on how good you really are. This is extremely important as your score will determine whether you gain sponsors, whether other tributes wish to fight beside you." Petyr gave Sansa's leg another squeeze before continuing. "Get some sleep and make sure you do as well as tomorrow." Harry rose from his chair, muttering about how well he would do. As he turned to leave, he winked at Sansa: an action which made her stomach twist into tight knots. She forced a smile and mumbled a goodnight to her fellow tribute.

      "He seems quite taken with you, sweetling." Petyr teased as he poured himself yet another cup of wine. Sansa smiled to herself at the hint of jealousy in his tone. "Perhaps you could use that to your advantage. You too would make a beautiful couple." He laughed, the sound like poison in Sansa's ears, making her squirm in her seat. _She and Harry?_ The idea was revolting. He was a handsome boy yes, someone she would have fallen for before, but now? No. She didn't want just handsome. The boy had no substance, he was like a painting on a glass, yes it was good to look at but when you scratch to see what's beneath you find an emptiness. He was too sure of himself, too aware of his appearance to be anywhere near Sansa's type.

      "He will be on my side. He will kill with me. That's enough." She spat, anger bubbling inside of her as she spoke. How dare he suggest such a thing. Was it not bad enough that she would soon be a killer? Now he wanted her to sell her body as well as her soul? She wouldn't do it. Petyr smirked at her words.

       "It was simply an idea, sweetling." He seemed a little too pleased at Sansa's refusal. He drained the last of his cup before abruptly leaving the room, calling out a word of good luck before finding his room.

 

       "SANSA STARK," Caesar Flickerman roared out to the audience. Sansa walked out in a floor length ash coloured dress, which trailed behind her with every step. Bright lights shone out from the ceiling, blinding her instantly. Caesar held out his hand to her, guiding her over to the black leather chairs. She spun upon his request, watching as the materials spread out around her, becoming a spinning circle at her feet.

       She dropped into her chair, smiling at the cheers which erupted from the over excited audience. _Animals_ , she thought. Cruel and uncaring. She answered all of their questions. She played along, anxiously twisting her wolf pendant which hung around her neck all night.

       "So let's talk about the moment when you volunteered to play in the place of your sister." He flashed her an unnatural smile, nodding his head for her to begin.

       "Well," Sansa's voice was beginning to crack. Thoughts of Arya made her stomach flip, for Arya meant home: a place she may not see ever again. Sansa sat for a moment wondering whether she would have behaved any differently that day if she had have known it could have been the last time she was in her home. Would she have stayed in her room for longer? Admired every detail of it? Would she have spent more time with her family? Would she have hugged them tight enough that she would have had to be dragged to the arena? Would she have told them how much she loved them? Would she have appreciated them more?

      A familiar cough in the distance brought Sansa back to the present. Petyr was staring at her from beside the camera, motioning for her to talk. She inhaled deeply, this was just another step on her path home. "When Arya's name was called out I couldn't quite believe it: she's my baby sister. It's my job to protect her, is it not? So I volunteered in her place. I promised her that I'd get home, I promised her I would win." She forced a smile then: it was becoming almost too easy.

      "How touching," Caesar wrapped his hand around hers, stroking the back of it with his thumb. How easy they were to play. How strange. "Maybe you will win, what with that impressive score of eight!" The whole audience erupted into whoops and cheers at Sansa's score, just like people did very time it was mentioned. This little bird had surprised many a men when her score had been revealed. Petyr smiled at her approvingly as she blushed at Caesar's words. Then the interview was over and Sansa could relax in the darkness of the hallways, away from the blinding lights and greedy eyes.

      "They loved you," a husky voice whispered from behind her. She spun around to see Petyr leaning against the wall. "And who would blame them?" He darted from the wall, pushing her back against it, his arm resting above her head. His other hand rested against her hip, lightly. "You looked magnificent out there, playing the sweet sister." The outline of his face was just about visible in the cloud of black. Petyr slowly leant in and brushed his lips against Sansa's, she followed his moments, returning his kiss with a kiss of her own. Her hands found his chest, resting open palmed against them. Petyr's hand gripped her hip even tighter, pulling her closer to him, a moan escaping his lips. _No_ , she thought. _What am I doing?_ She pushed firmly against his chest.

       "I'm sorry," she mumbled. Blood rushed to her pale cheeks, making them burn furiously.  Her hand flew to her forehead, what was she doing? Petyr was her mentor. He was her friend. He had been her mother's friend. He had been in love with her mother, not her. Petyr didn't seem bothered by Sansa's sudden withdrawal. He lifted her hand to her lips, brushing them against it a smirk on his lips and with that he left.

 

      The next week went by quicker than Sansa would have liked. She had spent every single moment with Petyr, listening, observing, learning. However all too soon it was the night before she was to go into the Hunger Games. She sat in her room, legs folded into her chest, arms wrapped protectively around herself. She had been so confident, but now the fear was beginning to creep its way in. Did she really have any chance? Was she going to die within minutes? Would she meet the same end as her father? Sansa's thoughts were interrupted by a short knock on the door.

      Petyr walked in with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He dropped down on the bed beside her, smiling. Sansa sipped slowly at the red liquid, cherishing the burn at the back of her throat. Petyr watched her all the while, his eyes narrowed. Sansa was still biting back the tears, but with Petyr beside her all she wanted to do was let go. She edged a little closer to him, her icy eyes releasing small droplets. "I'm scared, Petyr." She admitted. "I don't know if I can do this. You've taught me so much, but I don't know if I can do it. I'm not brave. I'm not strong. I'm not a killer, Petyr." He watched her silently as she spoke. When she had finished, he sat in quiet concentration, debating with himself. With a sigh, he moved so that he was sitting cross legged opposite Sansa.

      "Do you think I was a killer before this, Sansa?" He gave a short, disgusted laugh. "Do you remember when you asked me whether it gets easier to live with? I lied. It never gets easier, but it does mean that I'm alive. I'm alive." Sansa realised that he was reassuring himself when he spoke and she wondered whether he even remembered he was speaking to her. His mask was crumbling before her and she could see a sorrow in those dark eyes. "Her name was Lysa. It was terrible. Awful. She was from my district, maybe a year or two younger than me. She thought that she was in love with me. We decided to work together through this: we both believed that we wouldn't win. By the end of the games, it was me, Lysa and Brandon left. I was setting traps when he found me. Luckily I had my sword, but he also had his and I was a lot smaller then. His sword buried along chest and stomach. I thought I was going to die. I saw him even raise the sword, but Lysa was behind him and threw a spear at him: she was always a good shot. She nursed me back to health. Only the Gods know why she would do something like that: we were the only two left. She should have let me die. A few days after I'd recovered, I climbed a tree to get some privacy, but she followed me up there." Petyr closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I pushed her from the highest branch and then was called the winner."

      Sansa watched Petyr with wide eyes. She should be horrified: she knew it, but to see this man fall apart before her was too much. All she could feel was sympathy. He was no monster, and maybe she wouldn't be if she won. Petyr soon pulled himself back together, composing his face into its usual mask. "How do I live with that? You try to forget but you can't. Not really. When I was in the Hunger Games, they had given me a nickname: Littlefinger. The way I see it: Littlefinger was in those games. He killed Lysa. He's the scarred one. My hands, however," he lifted them, to show her his open palms. "Are clean."

      "Could I do that, Petyr? Be someone else while I'm in the arena?" Her knees were now resting against Petyr's. Her eyes glowed with hope.

      "Yes." His hand found her chin and he tilted her head at different angles, taking in each inch of her. "What about... Alayne? Alayne goes into the games and Sansa could be at home with her family. Sansa stays innocent. Sansa beats their game when Alayne wins hers." Sansa slowly nodded her head, a smile creeping across her face.

      "I think I could do that. Yes, Alayne could win the hunger games." Petyr's hand moved from her chin, along her cheek. His thumb traced her lips, sending shivers down her spine. He leant in, his lips gently brushing against hers. Sansa released that he was testing her, giving her the power to deny or accept him. She chose the latter, her hand wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him into a deeper kiss. His tongue slid against hers, Sansa mirroring his movements. He pushed her back until he was lying on top of her, one hand buried in her flaming hair, the other planted onto her hip, holding her tight enough to leave bruises.

     The hair buried in her hair clenched into a fist, dragging her head back, stretching out her pale neck. His teeth grazed along it, interrupted only for brief, gentle kisses. As his lips trailed along her jaw, his hand released her locks, dropping to her thigh, dragging his fingers inward. He pushed aside her underwear, his fingers moving teasingly slow along her slit. Sansa pushed her hips upwards, a small moan escaping her lips. Petyr moved this hand to the top of her underwear, dragging them down her legs before tossing them aside. He moved his attentions to her night gown, riding her of it quickly. A grin grew across his lips as he noticed Sansa's lack of a bra.

       "Naughty girl," he whispered before leaning back down against her. His tongue slid out against her nipple, before his lips enveloped it, sucking gently. His hand dragged up her side, taking hold of her other breast, squeezing it firmly. Petyr smirked into his kiss as Sansa moaned quietly. Once her breast was beginning to turn a pale pink, he moved his lips to her other breast, wrapping his teeth around her nipple, pulling it back slightly.

      Tired of waiting, Sansa's fingers snaked into Petyr's dark hair, pulling his lips back to hers. Her other hand pulled at the hem of his shirt, flinging it across the room, a devious smile on her lips. Sansa's finger trailed along the great scar along his chest, the raised skin cool beneath her touch, until she found what she was looking for. Sansa tugged at his trousers, dragging them away, along with underwear. When he was finally rid of his clothes, Sansa pulled him back down to her, wrapping her legs around him.

      "Are you sure?" Petyr whispered, his breath ragged. At Sansa's nod, he took his cock in hand and guided it at her entrance. He thrust into her deeply, a low groan sounding from his chest. _Pain_. That's all Sansa could think of. Pain spread through her core like a fire, ripping her apart from within. Tears slowly rolled from her icy blue eyes, her lips were a tight line, holding in her cries. Petyr stopped his movements, brows merged in confusion. "You're a virgin?" A snort of disbelief left his lips. Sansa cringed from beneath him, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. _Just a child_ , that's how he must have been thinking of her. Her gaze drifted form the wall to the ceiling, to his chest: anyway but him. "Oh, Sansa." She looked up to see his eyes burning into her, his lips stretched into a great grin. "Oh, my Sansa." He drove his hips forwards, more forcefully than before.

      Sansa's teeth sunk into his shoulder, trying to cover her muffled screams. Her nails dug into his back, dragging across his naked skin, leaving line red trails in their wake. Petyr gasped at Sansa's act, smirking as his hips gained speed. Soon Sansa was meeting Petyr's hips with thrusts of her own, ragged breaths leaving her lips, her heels digging even holder into Petyr's lower back.

       "Petyr..." She gasped. "Oh, Petyr, please." His hand moved from beside her head, down her chest, between her breasts until it reached the place where his cock was sliding so easy into and out of her. He pressed his thumb against her clit and that was it. Wave upon wave of pleasure washed over her, making her shudder with every breath. He breathed his name over and over as though it were some kind of prayer, something she needed to live. Watching her beneath him, his beautiful red haired goddess calling out his name, was too much. The familiar coiling inside him stomach made Petyr gain speed, his hips driving into her with such a force, he was sure to leave bruises. He collapsed on top of her, spent, burying his head into the curve of her neck, planting lazy kisses on her pale skin.

      He dropped down beside her, his heavy breathing filling the silence. Sansa curled up beside him, draping an arm across his chest, tracing lazy patterns. Petyr wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly, his warmth spreading across her skin. The scent of mint teased her nostrils: his scent. She closed her eyes and inhaled, willing the scent to stay in her memory. "I wish tonight would never end," she mumbled, voice thick with tiredness. Petyr's hand stroked her fiery locks, entwining around his slim fingers.

      "So do I, sweetling. So do I." Sansa slowly drifted into a deep sleep. With Petyr beside her, she no longer needed to remember what lay ahead of her. No longer needed to remember that tonight could be one of her last. _Everyone's day are limited, sweetling._ Petyr's words whispered to her through her dreams. _Everyone dies and that is the sad, harsh reality, but reality nonetheless. That doesn't mean you give up today, just because tomorrow is ending early._ Petyr waited until Sansa's breathing had finally evened out until he finished his sentence. "But it will end, sweetling." And for the first time in many years, Petyr let the mask crumble and what lay beneath was fear: pure, terrible fear.

 

      The glass tube stood empty before her, lights laying beneath the floor of it, calling out to her. _Brave, be brave like father._ Sansa took her first step towards the tube, then the next and the next, before the door clicked shut behind her. Sansa twirled around to see Petyr standing before her, a smile on his lips. She sprinted forwards, wrapping her arms around him, burying her head into his shoulder, her tears soaking into his dark clothes.

       "I'm scared, Petyr." She whispered. After all of her training, all of her planning and scheming, all of her preparation and she still felt like a bird being thrown into a lion's den. Her nails dug into his clothes, her hands clenching into fists, holding him closer.

       "I know you are, Sansa." A great siren echoed through the room, the lights shining brighter than ever. A female voice began to call out from the ceiling. _Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight_. The countdown had begun. Sansa turned away towards the tube, but Petyr's hand caught her wrist, pulling her back to him. _Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty._ His lips melted into hers, his kiss full of hunger and passion and fear. "Come back to me, Sansa." He breathed, wiping the teardrop from her blushed cheek. _Thirteen, twelve, eleven.._

      She stepped onto the platform, gingerly wringing her hands. "Not Sansa," she called out. _Eight, seven, six._ "Alayne." The door quickly slid shut with a bang, locking the girl into her glass case. She joined her index and middle finger, kissing their tips before raising them in the air to her mentor. _Three, two, one._ And then there was nothing but light.

      Sansa stood in a great circle, made up of her fellow tributes: some were pale and shaking with fear, other standing proud and ready. She looked around to Harry, he fell into the latter category, flashing her a brilliant smile. The countdown started once again and before long Sansa found herself hidden deep within the forest along with her group. Harry had chosen their other team members, as he had spoken to them the most. "This is Dany," the small girl with silver hair nodded at Sansa. In her hand was a pack of throwing knives, something she had grabbed as they had ran from the centre of the arena. "Ramsay," the tall boy with dark hair smirked at Sansa, an evil glint in his eyes. He had chosen a dagger with a ragged edge: a more painful killer was how he described it. Sansa knew she wanted to keep away from him as much as possible. "And finally Ygritte," the fiery headed girl was equipped with a bow and arrow. She didn't bother to acknowledge Sansa.  "Everyone this is Sansa."

       "Actually, I prefer Alayne." Everyone's eyes snapped up at her, the same question in each of their eyes. "I- it's my middle name. I always preferred it." She stuttered, thankfully no one seemed to spend too much time thinking about her change in name.

       In the first four days seventeen canons sounded, each signalling yet another innocent's death. Of those seventeen, eight had been killed by Sansa's group, yet Sansa had still not killed a single tribute: something which Ygritte was quick to pick up on. "What's the point of having her on our team if she won't kill anyone?" She hissed to Harry late one night.

      "She's useful." Was all that Harry could reply and Sansa had been paralysed with fear on the ground, daring not even to breathe loudly. If this was Harry's only defense then she would surely be dead by morning. "Come one, she's smart. And she cooks all of our meals for us-"

       "Any one of us could do that. I won't die for some pathetic little girl that you want to stick your cock in."

       "You think I'd risk my life for a bit of skirt, Ygritte? The truth is she can be quite handy with a weapon, trust me I watched her practice." There was a reason that Harry had been nicknamed the Falcon. During their training in the Capitol he had been spotted watching each and every tribute in turn, seeing the way they worked, whether they were good allies or better victims. Sansa had never realised that he had been watching her too.

      "Well, she'd better prove it soon." Ygritte snapped before storming off, meaning Sansa could finally slip into a light and uneasy sleep.

       As light broke across the clear sky the next morning, Sansa was shaken awake by two great hands. Harry's teal eyes swam before her, his pearly teeth revealed behind his grin. "Morning, San- Alayne." Harry sang. "Time to go hunting." She looked at him with narrowed eyes, confusion clouding her thoughts. As Harry grabbed the hilt of his silver hilt, she soon realised _what_ it was that he intended to hunt.

      The group tread through the forest, keeping a watch out for other tributes, but unfortunately finding none. With every step her stomach grew heavier and heavier, twisting tighter and tighter. This was the time to put her training to use. The snapping of a twig caused each other them to twirl around where they stood, searching for its source. A flash of blonde flew between the trees not too far from them. Harry started running first, his feet pounding against the soft ground with such a force that the mud seemed to vibrate beneath him. Ygritte and Dany set off behind him. The boy had too much of a head start and seemed to just be running them in circles. He darted around a tree, slim enough to slide between the next two. Harry was running to fast to stop and collided into the tiny gap, slamming into the great trees, his foot becoming lodged into the narrow space at the place where the two trees met.

      A canon sounded in the distance, causing everyone to stop, just for a heartbeat, before continuing their chase. The boy began to run towards Sansa, an axe swinging beside him, however he made no move to raise it. Suddenly Ramsay stepped out from behind a tree, lifting his arm so that the boy's chest smacked into it. He landed with a great _thud_ , lying perfectly still for a moment. Ramsay knelt down, pinning the boy's arms to the ground above his head. "Kill him," he mumbled, a smile growing on his lips, his eyes widened.

      _I am Alayne, I can do this._ She walked forwards, dropping down to sit on his stomach, holding him down herself. The others stood around her, their gazes burning into her skin. "Please," the boy whimpered, his grey eyes boring into her. "Please, please, please." He struggled beneath her, squirming, but it was no use.

     "Here, shut him up." Harry instructed, shoving a bunch of leaves into the boy's mouth. He chewed down on the green, spitting them out into her face. The scent of mint teased her nostrils, an memory stirring in her mind. He lay beside her, clutching her tightly to him. _Come home to me_. His words echoed through her thoughts. That was another girl. Another lifetime. _Alayne doesn't know that life_.

      With that the tip of her blade found the soft skin beneath ear. She pushed in deeply, dragging the dagger although his throat, creating a bloody smile from ear to ear. The boy spluttered beneath her, shaking violently. She watched him, her face a perfect mask. Another girl would have screamed, would have cried, wouldn't have pulled the dagger, but she was no longer that girl. Instead all Alayne felt was an emptiness inside her, growing and growing like a darkness within her very being.

      _I didn't even know his name_. She had taken his life without being given his name or who he was. She looked away from his ever staring eyes, watching the scattered mint leaves dance in the cool breeze. _Come home to me_.

     

      Soon there were only seven tributes left in the arena. Soon there would only be one. Arguments had already began throughout there group, each tribute claiming that they would be the winner. It was beginning to give Alayne a headache. She wondered through the forest, searching for the final ingredient for the night's meal. After almost an hour of searching she found them. Deep red berries lay scattered across a jade bush. She grabbed a handful of them and returned to their makeshift camp. As she handed each other them their food, her heart was hammering against her chest, her pulse echoing in her ears.

      They all started on the berries first: a rare treat. "Aren't... you... eating?" Harry mumbled between each mouthful of food. Suddenly Dany shrieked, her hands flying to her throat, clawing at it as though she were attempting to tear through her own skin. Her face began to turn into dark shades of red and slowly to purple. She made a great spluttering noise before collapsing face down in the muddy ground, her lifeless body laying in front of them all. Ygritte stared up in confusion, before twitching and falling to the ground in a violent fit.

      Alayne watched them fall one by one, the life draining out of each of them in turn until it was just Ramsay left. He spit out the berries quickly, shoving his hands down his throat, willing himself to be sick. In a fit of rage he flew at her, his hands wrapping around her neck, slowly squeezing the life out of her. She scratched at his skin, trying desperately to suck air into her lungs, but was only met by a tighter squeezing. As the edges of her vision began to cloud, she was ready to give up, she was ready to see her Father again.

      Then his hands were gone, replaced by a heavy weight lying on top of her. Alayne gasped at the cold air, cherishing the feel as it flowed down her burning throat, filling her lungs. She shoved the lifeless body from on top of her. A canon firing filled the air and Alayne shot up from the floor. Where there had been four dead bodies, there were now five. A young girl with short black hair lay beside Dany, her hands stained a deep red, crushed berried in her closed fist. _Only one left_.

      Alayne wondered through the trees until she was at the edge of the forest. "Hello," she shrieked at the top of her lungs. "Here I am." There was a rustling in the trees behind her and a flash of dark brown caught her eye. She scrambled up the great bark, pulling herself up to the highest branches. She swung the dagger into one of the thicker branches, repeating the action every so often until she couldn't reach any higher.

     She could hear the girl following her, calling out every way she was going to kill Alayne. "Come and get me," Alayne called, unsure where her sudden confidence had come from. Alayne gazed down constantly, watching as the other tribute narrowly missed every single branch, until finally she was beside Alayne. There was a fire burning in her wide hazel eyes. She licked her lips hungrily as she stepped closer and closer to Alayne. She lunged at her, axe in hand. Alayne kicked out, her foot planting into the girl's stomach. She hunched over. Her foot lost its place.  She slipped. She stumbled from the thin branch. Alayne watched with wide eyes, waiting, but no canon sounded. She glanced down to see the girl's hand wrapped around the thin branch, holding her in mid air.

      All she had to do was step on the girl's hand and it would all be over. She bit her lip anxiously, her heart beating more furiously than ever. She was so close now. Too close. A tear began to roll down her cheek. Her hands began to shake. _Could she do this?_ She had already killed so many people, all so that she could go home. What was home anymore? Did Alayne have a home? Then everything came back to her. She wasn't Alayne, she was Sansa Stark. And Sansa Stark had a home. Sansa Stark had a family. Sansa Stark had _him_.

      Sansa reached out, prying the girl's hand from the dark bark, finger by finger. The girl dropped and everything seemed to slow. Her dark locks spread out around her, her hazel eyes widened with fear. Her cloak caught the wind, trying into dark wings around her. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She breathed. Time seemed to catch up as the words left her lips. The girl hid the ground with a sickening thud. A canon sounded in response and a booming voice roared out announcing SANSA STARK as victor of the Hunger Games.

      She climbed down from the tree, dropping down beside the girl, searching the sky for the picture that would soon appear. She plucked a crimson rose from the nearest bush and placed it into the hand of the girl, crossing her arms against her chest and closing her blank eyes. "I'm sorry, Margaery." She breathed. In another life this was how Sansa would have imagined an older sister, beautiful and dangerous all wrapped into one.

       She stood back and allowed Margaery's body to be lifted into the sky, smiling as she saw the plane hovered above her. This was it. She had won. She was going home. She was going back to him. Sansa twitched nervously in her seat as the plane brought her back to the capitol. She was scrubbed and cleaned and clothed until she was finally presentable. Her three stylists pushed her out into a hallway, instructing her to follow the path for her interview. As she walked through the great white stretch, she heard familiar chuckle from behind. She spun around to see an exhausted Petyr Baelish standing before her. His dark hair had acquired more silver strands since she had last seen him, dark bags lay beneath his grey-green eyes and stubble had grown across his chin. Sansa stopped dead in her tracks. After weeks of dreaming and hoping, there he stood: the man who had helped her win. Everything slowed as Sansa sprinted towards him, her arms outstretched, whispering his name. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly against her chest, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

        "Sansa, my Sansa." He breathed, brushing his fingers against her fiery locks. Sansa melted her lips against him, tears running down her cheeks, ragged breaths leaving her lips. Sansa reluctantly pulled away, her name being screamed from the far corridor.

       "I'm coming," she shrieked at the closed doors. "Later," she whispered, taking her hand in his, brushing her lips against his knuckles. Time for her interview. Her moment of glory. The familiar blinding lights greeting her as she walked out onto the stage, being welcomed by hundreds of cheers. The interview passed on as a blur, Sansa watching as they showed the precise moment she became the sole survivor. Margaery fell from the tree much quicker than Sansa had remembered it. The fall had felt like a lifetime, not ten seconds. She grimaced when it showed Margaery's lifeless body slamming into the ground, her head cracking around a rock concealed by the muddy ground, red splattered around her.

      "And now you are the winner," Caesar sang, greeted by another chorus of cheers. "What is the first thing you are going to do now you've won your freedom?" He asked, his dark eyes wide, his mouth stuck in that everlasting smile. Sansa glanced around the darkness where the audience sat until she found who she was looking for. Petyr smiled at her, rising an arched brow. _What_ do _you want to do first, sweetling?_ He seemed to ask. Sansa smiled to herself, blushing.

      "Go to bed," she laughed. Casear took hold of her smile, returning her smile.

       "I bet that you're looking forward to a good, long sleep." She eyed Petyr, a low chuckle leaving her lips. _Maybe later, much later_.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments?


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